Temptations of the Flush (Act IV)

Act IV – Private Quarters

* * *

Characters:

POPE RIGHTVINGER - outgoing pope.
POPE FRANCO - incoming pope.
BENITO - domestic servant.
LAZZARO - domestic servant.
LUIGI - gravedigger.
CARDINAL BERTILLONI - senior administrator, Vatican City.
SIGNORE GARIBALDI - mafioso boss.

* * *

Popes old and new take tea and discuss future directions for Curia policy…

‘That thing should be defrocked,’ Pope Franco fumed. ‘He’s clearly a raving homosexual!’

Rightvinger eyed his successor imperiously as he fingered a white cat. ‘Hmm, but I suspect he would enjoy being ‘divested’ ah?’ He raised his Kriegvagon seat slightly causing the feline to twitch.

Franco frowned and tried to discern his counterpart’s inscrutable expression. ‘Well I’ve never been so insulted in my life!’ he raged. ‘The indignity…absolutely diabolical!’

‘Dire-bollock-pull, you say?’ Rightvinger responded with a feint smirk. ‘But shouldn’t one ‘turn the other cheek’…?’

Franco glared ferociously at him. ‘You find this amusing?’

Rightvinger cackled and slapped his knee. ‘Moderately so, ja.’ The cat started and peered up from his lap. ‘But you have to admire Cardinal Felatittio’s enthusiasm - I mean, he was practically champing at the bit.’

‘How dare you!’ The new pope snapped.

‘Or perhaps you found it pleasurable my dear fellow…when he, y’know, offered his succour…?’ The Emeritus winked.

‘I beg your pardon, Franco puffed, ‘you…’

‘And we grant you our pardon,’ Rightvinger deigned. ‘But enough of this loquaciousness; to business I think. We are, after all, here to discuss your future plans are we not?’

Franco sipped sulkily at his tea.

The Pope Emeritus pressed a button on his wheelchair. Shortly, two besuited domestic servants padded into the opulent drawing room. ‘Benito, we will take more tea please. Lazzaro, if you would be kind enough to fetch my aide memoire? Oh, and call maintenance about za blocked lavatory, yes?’

The pair nodded deferentially.

‘Coffee!’ Franco snapped. ‘I prefer coffee…and thank you for asking. Truly, one is overwhelmed by such gracious hospitality.’

The Emeritus ignored him and exchanged a glance with Benito who then disappeared into an adjacent kitchenette. The sound of a coffee grinder broke a stilted silence. The cat mewed and stared down disdainfully at Franco.

‘Manners maketh man,’ Rightvinger commented absently whilst petting his furry friend. ‘Puss, puss, puss, puss,’ he crooned; pursing his lips in a fashion evocative of a grossly distended sphincter. The feline looked up, watching intently as her master fished a tidbit from a silver tray. It promptly wolfed down the morsel from his fingers. ‘Aw, you love za lange-schwein don’t you, ah? Oo-ooh...you little slut! Oo-ooh...you little harlot...ah?...ah?’

The feline purred wildly as it was boisterously fondled and pawed.

The Emeritus returned to his successor. ‘You like cats?’

‘I’m allergic to the brutes,’ Franco sniffed. ‘So I’ll thank you to keep that mangy moggy away from me.’

‘Hmm, we take exception to that, don’t we Magdalene?’ Rightvinger’s maw puckered again and lowered to the cat’s head, planting a slobbering kiss. ‘Don’t listen to that nasty cardinal. We should tell her to put her claws away shouldn’t we, hmm?’ As the feline sniffed adoringly at Rightvinger’s drooling grimace, his dentures slithered from his mouth and crowned her with a toothy-tiara. The cat shook its head and mewed forlornly as her owner retrieved the itinerant mandibles and blew at them.

‘Dis-gusting,’ Franco sneered. ‘I’m surprised such cankerous creatures are permitted here,’ he continued haughtily, ‘left to roam hither and thither…leaving their calling cards on the upholstery…’

‘Nonsense my dear chap,’ Rightvinger countered. ‘My Magdalene is fully potty-trained. Furthermore, she’s a devoted ‘roam-and-cat-lick’. Aren’t you my diddy-pusskin?’ he chortled through slightly furry teeth. The cat stretched up on its haunches and began prancing coquettishly about her master’s lap before presenting him with a quivering rump. ‘Who’s a little Jezebel then? Who’s my strudel-strumpet, ah? Oo-ooh, you vant me to tickle that pretty pink rosebud again don’t you, ah…ah…?’

‘Eeugh...how utterly repugnant,’ Franco muttered.

Shortly, Lazzaro crept in. ‘Your Holiness,’ he said reverentially, handing a leather-bound journal to the Pope Emeritus.

‘Ah thank you Lazzaro, most kind,’ Rightvinger said with a nod. ‘I trust your paw’s healing satisfactorily?’

The tall young man looked down sullenly at his bandaged hand. ‘Yes, your Holiness. Most agreeably.’

‘Good. Now, you will attend to our maintenance concern if you will. Please escort the tradesman straight here and ensure he doesn’t stray.’

‘Yes, your Holiness.’ The servant bowed low and departed.

‘And the coffee…?’ Franco huffed, staring pointedly at his wristwatch.

‘Patience, my discourteous friend, is a virtue,’ Rightvinger scolded. As he shifted awkwardly a gurgling noise emanated from his Kriegvagon. ‘Ooouf, oh dear. I fear my effluvia’s proving a touch bothersome today.’

‘Pfffffft,’ [sic] came a gusty expulsion from his nether regions.

The cat bristled, pricking up its ears with alarm.

All of a sudden, the genteel ambiance was punctured by a thundering cannonade: ‘Brrr-ummphhh!…pitta-pitta-pitta…flumph-phuff…thrump…parp!…phhhlutt…pit-pit…’

The feline wailed, scrambled to floor and promptly hightailed it to the sanctuary of the chaise lounge. It gazed back looking most aggrieved.

‘Puss, puss, puss,’ Rightvinger called after his skulking pet. A flushing sound emanated from his wheelchair followed by the urgent thrumming of a motor and a whooshing sound. ‘Oooh…I love zat bracing air wafting around meine pinkel,’ he chuckled.

‘Phorrrp!...pwit-pwit...fumphhhhhhh…’ rumbled a decidedly damp squib. Sloshing, slurping noises began to swill around within the Kriegvagon’s bowels.

‘Will you desist from your foul percolations!’ Franco bellowed, wrinkling up his nose in disgust.

‘You do not vant za coffee?’ Rightvinger inquired mildly. ‘Hmm, there is no pleasing some people.’

The new pope duly produced a dainty handkerchief as he felt himself gag.

Benito strode into the room wearing a plumber’s mask and bearing a tray. He placed it down before the retching guest and opened the terrace window. Before beating a hasty retreat he coughed politely and discharged a discreet blast of air freshener.

Meanwhile Rightvinger perused his notes. ‘Hmm, let us see what we have in za pipeline. Hmm, I note you’re proposing some reforms? Tell me, what is wrong with preserving centuries of intransigence, ah?’ He paused to gaze at a portrait of Benito Mussolini. ‘You know, if I were you I… Ah…but za vicissitudes of men are no longer my concern…’ As if to underscore his existential angst the Emeritus evacuated a whining fart.

Franco glared up at his predecessor. ‘Well, mercifully, you are not me. What our church - and indeed what I desperately need - is a breath of fresh air. I envision our onward course as a mélange of old and new.’

‘Indeed,’ Rightvinger sniffed, cocking a haughty eyebrow.

‘As everyone knows by now,’ Franco went on, ‘I’m a humble man of modest needs…’

‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ his counterpart butted in. ‘So you will take za guest house and I keep my palace. I’m pleased we’re in accord.’ Dripping, trickling sounds issued from beneath him rising to a crescendo of rapid plopping noises, culminating in an explosive splatter.

Franco brought his handkerchief to his nostrils and eyed him up and down severely. ‘Good God man, are you not well?’

‘I fear I’ve been stricken with an ague of late,’ Rightvinger responded with a dismissive wave. ‘Continue.’

Franco’s began to gasp for air, his eyes streaming. ‘You will… [cough] …excuse me…a moment…’ He felt himself begin to swoon.

‘I must say, you’re looking a little peaky cardinal,’ the Emeritus observed.

‘Whoa …uh-oh…ooh…’ Franco panted, ‘…attack…o’ the vapours...I feel like…the Oracle of Delphi…y’know…seeing stars.’

‘Oh dear,’ Rightvinger said gazing down critically. ‘Well I sincerely hope you have the capacity to fill my shoes satisfactorily. Certainly, I filled my shoes on a regular basis until I acquired this most commodious throne. My very own ‘poopmobile’.’

The new pope gulped at his coffee and began to feel somewhat bolstered by a light breeze. He gathered his wits and addressed his host. ‘The…erm…first point…is the matter of sollicitationis; you know; clergymen who spend more time preying than praying…?’

‘Ah yes. It seems despite my worldwide edict enforcing the concealment of sexual abuse cases, there’s been seepage.’

‘Seepage? Listen, those shyster lawyers are bleeding us dry over this! Our church must act forthwith or face bankruptcy. So I suggest we discreetly petition the European Parliament. Have them lower the legal age of consent to five-years old.’

‘Hmm, an interesting strategy,’ Rightvinger cogitated.

‘As for the existing legions of libertines you’ve been shuffling around the globe, I propose immediate excommunication; leave them to face the jurisdiction of the civil authorities.’

‘Nein! We continue to handle these matters internally and in strictest secrecy. Guarding our reputation trumps any concerns of so-called ‘civic justice’. This is a matter of principle. As supreme representatives of God, do you think we’re answerable to the paltry laws of men? Of course not; we transcend such fripperies. Besides, I’ve an alternative strategy. I’m fully aware of these clergy and za catamites with whom they consort. And I’ve come to za conclusion that cure is better than prevention.You will leave this with me.’

‘I see. Well we might at least implement the second-phase of my scheme; the introduction of Fleshlight™ and Kleenex to all confession cubicles. That way, should a priest experience… [ahem]…‘amorous inclinations’ during confession he might, as it were, contain the matter discreetly.’

‘I will consider this,’ Rightvinger commented nonchalantly.

‘Fine. But I trust this won’t become a sticking point,’ Franco went on, ‘because quite frankly matters have come to a head. Do you know I actually discovered a glory-hole in my local confession box? I was there as a penitent. Initially I assumed the priest was offering home-cooked sausage to the destitute. Dear God…I mean the degeneracy!’

‘Quite,’ Rightvinger murmured. ‘It would seem piety, not patriotism, is the last bastion of za scoundrel.’

‘Well, it is high time we clamped down on this sort of behaviour in our ministries. So I’m advocating the imposition of chastity belts. Furthermore, I’ll insist upon a daily dose of bromide for all clergy. And, for those more ‘wayward’ clerics, we provide child-sized inflatable dolls. I feel confident that, in concerto, these measures will reign in those vile and libidinous urges that have cost us so dearly.’

‘Ah-ha, excellent,’ Rightvinger crowed approvingly (popping a celebratory squeaker). ‘I must concede you have devised a competent damage-limitation strategy.’ A red light began to flash on the Kriegvagon’s control panel. ‘Ah shizer! Not again surely?’ he grumbled. ‘Za sludge tank is almost full. You will be succinct. I have no desire to baste in my own juices again.’

‘Then I will speak of my majestic vision - visited upon me by God himself: ‘Popeworld’. Good wholesome family entertainment with a healthy dose of proselytizing. I received inspiration after reading about Walt Digby – y’know, the McCarthyite racist who hated trade unions and enjoyed fairy stories?’

‘Indeed,’ Rightvinger reflected, ‘I’ve heard of him. I understand he shared many of our political affinities.’

‘Doubtless. Anyway, his muse led me to a shining revelation; St Peter’s Square festooned with carousels, rollercoasters, burger stands...  I see a carnival of characters from our illustrious history like Pope Julius II and Tomás de Torquemada.’

‘Ah-ha,’ Rightvinger slapped his knee approvingly, ‘yes, a useful diversion.’

‘Quite. Not only would it entice more sightseers, but it would also restore funds to our impoverished coffers. We might even utilize our pool of amateur musicians, thespians and clowns.’

‘A splendid notion. In fact I have myself progressed from the pianola to za violin. I might offer the occasional performance as za ‘kiddie-fiddler’ yes?’

‘Hmm, well…a possibility…’ Franco humored him doubtfully. ‘But just think of the vast revenue from corporate sponsorship. There’s also the merchandising potential. Picture it: Jesus Juice, Pope-a-Cola, Heretic Burgers, Papal Peenie-Pads…Pope John Paul II dildos… The possibilities are endless. Further, we commission the IOR to print Popeworld Dollars. Then, at the end of a two-week vacation package, we massively devalue them and claw them back at huge profit.’

‘It seems I’ve underestimated you my dear fellow. You are, like your namesake, General Francisco Franco, a man of uncommon vision. Alright, we will review other matters in due course. There are more pressing matters to attend to before decrepitude overtakes me. Good.’ The Emeritus lowered his seat and stood to pour himself another tea.

Franco quailed as he was confronted by a pair of blotchy, sloughing buttocks through a circular vent in the rear of Rightvinger’s vestments. The Emeritus stooped as his cat scampered up to him, providing a more intimate portrait and one normally reserved for proctologists.

‘By all the saints!’ Franco exclaimed, ‘I’ll never eat a pastrami bagel again.’

‘My main concern, naturally, is we maintain the dignity of za church,’ Rightvinger asserted as he caressed his pet. ‘Oo-ooh what a fluesy, ah? Oo-ooh you’d make a lovely pair of gloves, hmm?’ he cackled raffishly. Feeling a slight updraft he settled back into his chair.

Magdalene wailed and darted towards the visitor.

‘Shoo!’ Franco yelled. ‘Keep that caterwauling quadruped away from me!’ He began sneezing.

There was a rap at the door.

‘Come,’ Rightvinger called out.

Lazzaro stole in accompanied by a disheveled, shambling, wreck-of-a-man in overalls and brandishing a sink plunger.

‘Evenin’ yer’ ‘oliness, I understand you got a problem with yer plumbing?’ Luigi slurred.

‘How dare you!’ Rightvinger spat. ‘Impudent swine!’

‘Ah…err…now…hmm,’ Luigi gabbled, swaying somewhat. ‘Um…I’ve come about the...um...clogged up lav, yeah? The governor mentioned you got a logjam or something?’

Rightvinger ignored him and addressed Lazzaro. ‘Please, will you show this cretin to the restroom. And keep an eye on him, yes? I think it is inebriated. Oh, and the other matter; you are to bring this one to me, ja? Integra et incolumi…understood?’

Lazzaro nodded soberly and led Luigi to the bathroom.

Luigi winced as he dropped his tool bag and regarded his bandaged hand. He peered into the toilet bowl. A solitary kernel of sweet corn sailed a rather stagnant sea. As Lazzaro watched over him from the doorway he quaffed a long draft of liquor and placed a refuse bag by the pedestal. He began to struggle with a pair of long rubber gloves. ‘Ere, give us a hand will yer’?’ he called back to the servant.

‘Sure,’ Lazzaro said, closing the door behind him. ‘But I only have one hand to offer.’

Luigi noticed the servant’s bandage as the pair wrestled with the gloves. ‘Snap,’ he grinned, feeling a certain camaraderie with a fellow sufferer. ‘Right, well, I’d best get this sorted…I left the gas oven on, see?’

With gloves finally secured the gravedigger began groping around the u-bend. ‘Papers,’ he huffed, trying to keep his chin from the bowl. ‘Coor dear, you wouldn’t believe the number of times I’ve ‘ad to fish documents out o’ blocked lavvies.’

‘I see,’ Lazzaro murmured.

Luigi yanked a dripping, sodden mass from the depths and plopped them into the sack. ‘Bleedin’ ‘orrible,’ he shuddered. ‘Reckon there’s bit more up there too.’ He returned his hand to the putrid pool. ‘Y’know, I’m not actually qualified in the maintenance of bogs?’

‘No, you’re a gravedigger…and a fucking thief,’ Lazzaro hissed.

‘Now…um…‘ere…’ Alarm bells rang loud in Luigi’s head. So loud, in fact, that even he could hear them over the dull throb of his hangover. ‘Omar-gawd…you…?’

‘Me.’ Lazzaro grinned maliciously as he stalked towards the prone workman. ‘What’s wrong?’ he snickered, seizing Luigi’s head and thrusting it brutally into the pan, ‘…feeling a little flushed?’

* * *

Bertilloni dialled his cell phone and drummed his fingers to the dialling tone. ‘Answer goddamit.’

‘What already?’ Garibaldi spat.

‘Another fatality. Wiener…Stanislaw Wiener. And he’ll be missed. He was the Archbishop of Warsaw,’ the cardinal said perfunctorily.

‘Oh yeah, he was a regular…paid well…liked ‘em young,’ Garibaldi said with a horse laugh. ‘So he fell off his perch, ah?’

‘Not exactly. He was decapitated… dismembered. My source informs me the walls were adorned with profanities written in his own blood.’

There was a long pause. ‘Mother-fucker. Hey, I only sent my guy ‘round there yesterday. Y’know, the Ganymede Guesthouse. Anyways, he had a sniff around. One of my little boys mentioned this masked monk he saw; tearing down the stairwell. So he followed this freak to the basement. But then the guy just fuckin’ vanished. The kid said he ‘melted into darkness like a phantom, like il Diavolo himself’.

‘Of course…the catacombs!’ Bertilloni exclaimed. ‘There’s a network of rat-runs extending way beyond Vatican state boundaries. Hmm, it seems our assassin’s privy to this. But how? I mean it’s hardy common knowledge…?’

‘Obviously he’s connected. So he has a rendezvous with our bishop then dices him. Y’know, this ain’t good for business,’ Garibaldi murmured gruffly. ‘So I been thinkin’…why don’t I move operations to São Paulo?’

‘But we’re in this together aren’t we? Surely it’s imperative that we find this cutthroat? I mean, what if he knows of us…?’

‘Hey that’s your lookout pal. I’m shippin’ out. I mean, we may be morally bankrupt but at least we’ve stayed financially buoyant all these years. But things ain’t lookin’ too bright now. Y’know that friendly police commandant? Well, he just told me about some other stiff. Monsignor Giuseppe Carrioni, Bishop of Verona - ‘Sloppy Giuseppe’ to his friends. Anyways, the polizia just pulled him out the fuckin’ Tiber. He looked like he’d been fuckin’ crucified. Oh, and he’d had his balls sliced off.’

‘What?’ Bertilloni gasped. ‘Jesus! Of course we must act on this. You must send your men into the catacombs hunt for this killer. I mean if I go down, well…what of your fate?’ the cardinal insinuated.

‘You threatening me - smug little cunt? Garibaldi hissed menacingly. ‘Hey, Listen, forget the inferno, I’ll throw you down the deepest fuckin’ pit there is. I told you, I’m out. Latin America’s where the action is. People-trafficking, drugs…you name it. And thanks to you guys prohibiting condoms they can’t stop having bambinos. So there’s always fresh meat for the whorehouses. So when your cardinals finish spouting their sanctimonious bullshit from the pulpit they can enjoy some R&R in the Favelas they’ve helped create. It’s perfect. Plus the kids can’t afford no fuckin’ lawyers and nobody asks questions when they go missin’.’

‘I think you’re forgetting about the documents in my safe my friend,’ Bertilloni hissed. ‘Many of which might prove, shall we say, embarrassing - even for you. After all, you’re not above sampling your own delectable wares on occasion, are you? Oh, and don’t forget I have you on candid camera.’

Yeah-yeah, whatever. We’re through pal.’

‘We’re not through, damn it!’

He was anwered with the dialling tone.

Bertilloni assumed a faraway look. He gazed from his townhouse window to the infernal embers of Rome’s metropolis. Was it over…all the power, the influence…the wealth…?  Up in flames like the apocalyptic pyre of the cityscape? Perhaps it was time to retire…enjoy all the wealth in sunnier climes…?

Bertilloni’s craggy features took on a wistful expression. But then he noticed smoke wafting around the doorframe. Paint blistered on the door. What the hell? As he stepped over and flung it open, flames consumed him.

© Edwin Black 2013

 

Liber Gomorrhianus Lima (Act III)

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Liber Gomorrhianus Lima* (Act II)

FOLLIS BRITANNIA**

Welcome from Edwin – court jester to the disreputable houses of Europe and scoundrel to whatever remains. May I extend warm greetings from riotous Great Britain – that grandiose bastion of eavesdropping hacks, looters and more CCTV cameras per capita than the world’s most paranoid theocracies. Could it be that rather than ruling the waves, Britannia’s become a snooping, neurotic landlubber who’s having her metaphorical t*ts sucked dry thanks to a recent baby boom? (I’m curious about the rationale to expand the population whilst human activity compels our planet towards ecological catastrophe?)

…Is it patriotism that stirs in me or an attack of biliousness?

           

Enough of this brooding existentialism! Let me leave you with Act II of Liber Gomorrhianus Lima. So kick off those high heels, pour yourself a glass and enjoy…

*Latin for Book of Gomorrah (see Act I for details). ‘Lima’, means ‘revisited’.
**Latin meaning (literally) ‘wind-bag’. Follis forms the root of the word ‘fool’ – another word for jester. ‘Fool Britainia’ is a notional word play on ‘Rule Britainia’, arguably the most grossly jingoistic anthem known to man.

Liber Gomorrhianus Lima

ACT II – MANNA FROM HEAVEN

(The following story is intended for ADULTS ONLY.)

CHARACTERS (in order of appearance).

MOTHER LUCRETIA - Mother Superior of the Divine Sisters of Mammon.

SISTER CRAVEN - Bride of Christ and general lackey.

SIGNORE CORLEONE -  Dealer in rare antiquities, holy relics and upmarket tat.

HIS HOLINESS POPE CHIPOLATA II – Head honcho of The Roman Curia.
SISTER DIABOLIS - Bride of Frankenstein and hideous old crone.

* * *

Deep within the catacombs beneath Vatican City, the Divine Sisters of Mammon enjoy some fiscal stimulation... [Translated from Italian.]

‘Now did Luigi bring those personal effects for signore Corleone to handle?’ Mother Lucretia enquired haughtily while drumming podgy fingers on a leather topped desk.

Sister Craven glanced up sheepishly from her kneeled position, unable to meet the fearsome gaze of her Mother Superior. ‘Yes ma’am, I have them here,’ she said, offering up a gold collection plate with trembling hands.

Her superior inspected the proffered tray with beady magpie eyes. ‘Is this all there is?’ she snapped. She hauled up her corpulent form and lumbered ponderously towards her minion.

‘Yes ma-’ Sister Craven cowered as the plate was snatched from her clasp and flung onto the desk with a clatter. She felt the customary searing glare directed at her crouched form.

‘Whatever, all ill-gotten-gains help the coffers,’ Mother Lucretia purred. She smirked coquettishly at her subordinate. ‘Now, a little dickie-bird told me you’ve been having impure thoughts Sister Craven…that you’ve been idling in your room and concerning yourself with the visceral rather than spiritual…hmm?’

Sister Craven’s cheeks flushed. ‘Oh no Mother Lucretia…no,’ she bleated, ‘I’d never think about Sean…I mean…Father O’Leering in that way. I just wouldn’t…I-’

‘Father O’Leering is it?’ The Mother Superior cut in with a triumphal sneer. ‘I suspected as much! Is that ye’ dirty little game eh? Jezebel!’ she shrieked. She yanked at a stray lock of her sister-inferior’s hair.

‘Ouch!’ Sister Craven yelped. ‘Oh…thank you Mother Lucretia, thank you.’

‘Filius meretricis…ye’ daughter of a harlot, you!’ Mother Lucretia flared. She wiped away a bead of drool that had begun to irrigate the stubble of her triple-chin.

Sister Craven looked up tearfully. ‘But I didn’t…I’m not-’

‘Not what, hmm? Not virgo intactus? Is that ye’ confession Sister Craven…?’ The Mother Superior bristled. ‘Tell me! I demand to know what you’ve been stuffing into ye’ snatch?’ Without waiting for a reply she took a swipe at the cowering form, producing a startled squeak.

‘I might…perhaps…have touched it accidentally…when I was bathing,’ Sister Craven blubbed piteously.

‘I knew it,’ the Mother Superior hissed, ‘I just knew it…indulging in bestial carnality in this most holy of cities. It’s apostasy! I bet you’ve spent all night dreaming about huge throbbing heathen phalluses didn’t ye’…eh…eh…?’

Again, the quivering form squeaked unintelligibly.

‘Answer me when I interrogate you!’ Mother Lucretia commanded. She raked her fingernails along the subordinate’s flanks, pausing briefly to grapple and pinch at the prone pair of buttocks. ‘Oh, but what a brazen little slattern you are - what are ye’…?’

Sister Craven glanced up woefully, ‘a brazen little slattern ma’am.’

‘To bloody right you are!’ the enraged disciplinarian snapped. ‘Do you know what torments await indolent sluts like you in that infernal abyss, Sister Craven? Ravening demons force you to read Jackie Collins while they stuff pickled chillies up ye’ jacksy and whip up ye’ fanny-batter with an egg whisk! Imagine suffering that for the rest of eternity! But it’s nothing compared with what I’ll do to ye’!’ she screeched.

‘Oh forgive me Mother Lucretia,’ Sister Craven pleaded through her tears, ‘I didn’t intend to commit a deadly sin. It was such a terrible moment of weakness.’

‘This cannot go unpunished Sister. You’ll have to be severely admonished. And if you imagine you can oink and squeal your way out of this one then you’re sorely mistaken. Be at my chambers at eight-thirty tonight…or there’ll be hell to pay…’

‘Yes m’um,’ Sister Craven sobbed.

Oh for those halcyon days of proselytising with the aid of thumbscrews and red hot pokers… Mother Lucretia mused wistfully. She waddled backwards, perching a gargantuan pair of buttocks on the edge of a creaking desk. She hitched up her habit and took a moment to fondle her inflamed sex then dabbed it with her handkerchief.

Presently, she cast covetous eyes back over Cardinal Rightvinger’s belongings. Not a bad little haul… she speculated …the fact that proceeds end up in the pockets of defence attorneys is fecking scandalous. Oh those poor priests… unwitting victims of the most malicious and outlandish allegations. How dare those fantasists, philanderers and fornicators accuse those under the aegis of God’s sacred institution? Was that not the real act of defilement?

Momentarily her gaze strayed onto the tufts of ginger pubic hair that remained wedged in a set of Rightvinger’s false teeth. It called to mind a flaming-haired alter boy, Marcos, who’d loyally served the Vatican before meeting with an untimely accident…odd…?

Shaking herself from her reverie, Mother Lucretia noticed that her charge was still crying. ‘Now, come dear, you mustn’t wail so. You’re simply making a spectacle of yourself. It’s most unsightly.’

‘But I’m unworthy of the solemn vows I took, Mother Lucretia,’ Sister Craven wept. ‘Oh! my mind is so riddled with uncertainty.’

The Mother Superior extended a chubby palm and stroked the trembling cowled head. ‘Of course you’re worthy my delicate little rosebud. Oh dear, perhaps I was a tad harsh on you? I didn’t mean to seem uncharitable. It’s just that you’re such a jaw-droppingly repulsive old troglodyte, aren’t you dear? It’s so difficult to overlook sometimes. But you really shouldn’t blame yourself. Naturally, you will remain with the Divine Sisters of Mammon. We welcome all devout souls no matter how pig-ugly they might be.’

‘Yes ma’am…thank you ma’am,’ the Sister said, attempting a feeble smile.

‘That’s better.’ The dominatrix handed the Sister her frowsy handkerchief to dry her eyes. ‘But just try not to roll those hurt little piggy eyes at me okay? Otherwise, (and I mean this with the utmost kindness) you’ll be sanctified with another slap. Understood?’

There was a sudden knock at the door.

Immediately, Mother Lucretia straightened her robes and ushered her subordinate to the corner of the room. ‘Please enter,’ she said curtly.

A tall, immaculately suited man strode into the room and parked himself on a chair unbidden. His gaze fixed upon the tray of trinkets speculatively. ‘So ‘dis is what you have for me most holy Mother?’ he said, receiving Mother Lucretia’s hand and planting a slobbering kiss.

‘Indeed signore Corleone,’ Mother Lucretia simpered. ‘…and though our church shuns pecuniary concerns and the filthy luca, earthly blessings sometimes fall like manna from heaven. Especially, I might say, in matters of rare and wondrous objet d’art.’

‘Ah yes, I pay ‘da usual prices. But let me see…’ Signore Corleone grinned, plucking an eye glass from his pocket and examining a small specimen jar. ‘And ‘dis is…?’

‘Oh signore, a most prized artefact!’ the Mother Superior exclaimed. ‘I don’t know if our order could ever part with it. You are holding the sanctus gluteus-minimus papilloma - apt only for the most discerning of tastes….’

Signor Corleone shot the Mother Superior a quizzical look. ‘Signora…?’

‘Sir, it is the sacred anal wart. It was appropriated from our most revered Cardinal Rightvinger just before his ascension on that heavenly stair lift,’ the matriarch elaborated. ‘But look, there so are many saintly relics that might also be of interest. We have the sacred undergarments - sanctus pantaloons…and the sanctus pubic saeta.

‘Sanctus what…?’ Signore Corleone enquired.

‘Ah, I’m most happy that you ask!’ The Mother Superior gushed. ‘They are the divine follicles - gathered after Cardinal Rightvinger’s short-crack-and-sides waxing session.’

A telephone began to ring. Mother Lucretia directed her minion to answer it with a withering glare.

‘It’s those researchers from Oxford University again ma’am,’ Sister Craven explained. ‘They wish to carbon date the sanctus skid vestigium to verify its authenticity…’

‘Certainly not!’ Mother Lucretia squawked. ‘Tell them we will never grant permission again. Tell them we refuse!’

Signor Corleone raised an eyebrow. ‘I confess that I’m curious about this ‘skid vestigium’. Would you care to elaborate most eminent mother?’

Sister Lucretia clasped her hands together and took a moment to compose herself. ‘Signore Corleone…it is hard to find words to convey the sacramental nature of this cherished relic. You see, our Saint Rightvinger left a stain on a hotel bed sheet during a visit to Turin. It is said that the mark depicts an effigy of our Lord if you squint at it whilst performing a handstand and possess a keen appreciation for Abstract Expressionism.’

Signor Corleone glanced at his watch. ‘That is all very interesting signora, but I need to discuss a matter of the most delicate nature.’

Mother Lucretia pricked up an ear and pursed her lips. ‘Of course signore.’ She scratched idly between a roll of fat that had acquired a healthy crop of mildew.

‘As you are aware, I am but a simple man,’ Signore Corleone explained, ‘…a humble patron of our church and very much lesser mortal.’

‘Indeed, and we are most grateful for your continued generosity,’ the Mother Superior urged.

‘So my request may at first, seem…unorthodox… Although I assure you it derives from the most steadfast and noble of motives.’ Signore Corleone felt encouraged by his counterpart’s approving nod. ‘I simply propose to take a mould from Saint Rightvinger’s most holy edifice and preserve this great man for posterity.’

‘Edifice?’ Mother Lucretia queried.

‘Yes signora, ‘da sacred manhood,’ her counterpart confided. ‘Then hey presto, admirers might enjoy Rightvinger’s blessings ‘til Kingdong™ come. You must agree to this request, signora, I beg you.’

The Mother Superior needed no encouragement in any profitable venture but feigned an expression of mild disapproval.

‘Perhaps you might think of it,’ Signor Corleone continued, ‘as your saint conducting a different kind of service for parishioners. Allow me to elaborate. Imagine if pilgrims to this most holy of theme parks could take with them a memento of their religious experience…a prized souvenir that might stimulate their faith for years to come…’

‘I’m not sure I understand…’ Mother Lucretia fibbed nonchalantly.

‘Madame I refer, of course, to ‘da Saint Rightvinger marital aid; lovingly crafted in polyurethane in order to preserve the dignity and sensibility of our holy institution. It would also come with a presentation gift box picturing our dear Saint at his most alluring. Furthermore, it could play a selection of his most poignant addresses at St. Peter’s square that would be motion-activated. It might even recite a few post-coital Hail Mary’s to assuage any residual guilt. Surely it would become a prized possession for the faithful and elevate their heavenly rapture to its climax. Let me assure you, Mother Lucretia, it would represent the epitome of good taste.’

The Mother Superior flashed a demure smile. ‘Well, I’m really not sure that would be appropriate given that-’

‘Oh please signora,’ Signore Corleone cut in, ‘will you at least consider my proposal? Naturally, I would make a wildly extravagant donation for your troubles. It is a most equitable arrangement, I think you’ll agree?’

The Mother Superior directed a stern look at her subordinate. ‘Sister Craven, if you’ve quite finished scratching your bearded clam maybe you’ll leave us to conclude business in private hmm?’ she taunted. ‘Go on ye’ repugnant little Caliban…scoot!’

As Sister Craven burst into tears and fled. The sex toy manufacturer raised an eyebrow.

‘She’s such a dear little soul but so terribly capricious,’ the senior nun apologised. ‘Heaven knows how we might help that poor tormented child… Anyway, as you were saying signore…?’

The businessman flashed an easy smile. ‘Signora, let me tell you a little story if you’ll indulge me. You see, a few years ago a holy relic came into my possession. A manhood of the most august pedigree. Indeed, it was the earthly appendage of a Saint. Being as I am a purveyor of only the finest merchandise, I had a cast made which proved an overnight success among those seeking earthly solace. It became obvious to me that there was a yawning hole in the market. So I create ‘da ‘Fred Phelps Fag’s Finger Butt-Bung™’. It also proved an instant hit so I expand operations to America. It was there that I devise the ‘Scott Lively Pink Squat-Tickler™’ and the ‘Terry James Muff-Mecca™’. I cannot tell you, madam, how those good people of the U.S. clamour for ‘da goods. It was then that I set up production in Uganda with ‘da ‘Martin Ssempa Sludge-Funnel, Mask & Scat Blanket™’. And for those who enjoy a sluice-with-a-da-juice, I make the ‘Giles Muhame Gutter-Bib & Slops Tray™’. (Mr Muhame, of course, was prone to spew out the most seminal ejaculations.)

‘I must confess signore; I find this assortment of erm…bedroom adornments a trifle disconcerting,’ Mother Lucretia admitted, ‘…if not a touch base.’

Signore Corleone patted her hand with a clammy palm. ‘Oh no, not ‘base’ signora. I concede that my approach may seem cavalier, but I’m merely providing sermons from a different kind of mount.’

‘I suppose I can see where you’re coming from,’ the Mother Superior conceded.

‘Signora, you are an immensely gracious lady and I heartily thank you for it,’ the businessman crooned, oozing subum and charisma in almost equal proportions. He gazed appreciatively at the near walrus-sized woman slouching before him. After rifling through an attaché case, he presented the object of his desires with an elegantly wrapped box. ‘Perhaps I you might accept a small token of my devotion Madame. It’s a prototype. It is my heartfelt wish for you to be the first...’

‘Why, thank you kind sir,’ Sister Lucretia giggled, unceremoniously grabbing the gift, ‘but what, pray tell, can it be?’

‘You are actually holding ‘da ‘Osama Bin Laden Vulvic-Volcano™’. It spouts ‘Allah be praised’ at the point of climax.’

* * *

‘Mother Lucretia, may I humbly request your counsel? I need to speak with you on a matter of utmost urgency,’ Sister Craven said anxiously.

‘Just remain in my chambers - as ordered. Impudent child! And don’t forget the egg whisk this time or else!’ Mother Lucretia snapped. She resumed her counting of the large bundles of Euro notes piled on her escritoire.

Sister Craven lapsed into melancholy contemplation. The gloomy bowels of the Vatican had served to intensify a suffocating sense of confinement that went beyond mere physicality. She sighed inwardly.

There was a sharp rap at the door. Sister Craven took delivery of a parchment and handed it deferentially to her senior. There was a wax seal bearing the impression of the Pope’s ring. It read:

“It is decried tthat hiss most holey eminence, Cardinal Rat Rimmer be sanctified at too thirty to daye. By order of his hole-in-arse Pope Chipolata II.”

Mother Lucretia scowled at the spidery lettering. ‘That good-for-nothing boss-eyed scrivener!’ She cursed. Jesus, wasn’t it about time they carted the old fart off the fecking glue factory?

* * *

As implied previously, the clandestine rite of beatification was presided over by His Holiness Pope Chipolata II.

Christened ‘Fedele Chipolata’, the would-be pope had been raised in Las Vegas. He was one of six little darlings brought over to the States by impoverished Italian emigrants. A singularly precocious child, he’d been widely disliked by his peers thanks to a preoccupation with snitching over the pettiest infractions of authority. Fedele’s weasely adherence to convention had inevitably drawn him towards the more pious mindset. At the tender age of fifteen he’d experienced his first epiphany and had been ‘born again’. This transformation heralded a meteoric rise in his fortunes. By seventeen, he’d assumed the guise of an evangelical lay-preacher-cum-faith-healer.

After two decades of fabulous affluence (and indeed effluence), Pastor Chipolata opted to return to mother church and mother country. Remarkably, this second ‘Damascus road’ moment coincided with a criminal investigation into his mentoring sessions with a deeply troubled young parishioner (who just happened to be an underage rent boy). In Rome, the Holy See were quick to recognise the talents of their newly acquired turncoat. Consequently, Fedele climbed through the ranks faster a gravity-defying martyr on Ascension Day. On the advent of Pope Rightvinger’s tragic demise, Cardinal Chipolata seemed the obvious successor. His diabolical fusion of sophistry, egomania and sanctimony had already all but bewitched a whole new generation of unquestioning automatons.

Pope Chipolata II eyed Mother Lucretia gravely. ‘I believe we’re ready to begin,’ he informed her haughtily.

‘Certainly, your Grace.’ Mother Lucretia intoned. She proceeded to throw open large set of doors revealing a lavishly adorned baronial hall festooned with flickering candles. The centrepiece was a shrouded coffin on a low marble plinth.

The pair strutted stiffly into the room like a pair of haemorrhoid victims. Mother Lucretia turned. ‘Right, come now youse disgusting little sin-pigs. Get yer fecking arses in ‘ere or, so help me God, I’ll make bacon rashers of the lot of youse. A disorderly herd of nuns clambered and crawled on all fours into the room and congregated about the stage.

‘Right my porcine princesses you know the procedure!’ Lucretia barked. She promptly peeled back the shroud revealing the withered naked body of Saint Rightvinger who’d mysteriously acquired a beatific smile (expression no. 49 of the Mortician’s Guild catalogue).

‘You may begin.’ Chipolata commanded. ‘Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. We are gathered here to slaver the cadaver...’ he droned. When the interminable solioquy was finally over, he regarded Mother Lucretia rather pointedly.

Mother Lucretia unfastened a bullwhip from her belt and sidled over to her minions. With one sharp crack of her whip the jostling, fawning herd began eagerly licking at the suppurating carcass. Amongst the chorus of slurping and sucking noises were gleeful little oinks and snorts.

Abruptly, Mother Lucretia unleashed a stinging hail of lashes upon her cowering underlings. ‘Repent! Atone yourselves damn you, Repent!’ She shrieked, lashing out indiscriminately and mercilessly. ‘Indolent, ungodly swines!’

Pope Chipolata II looked on imperiously from his throne. He grimaced somewhat as he noticed one of the more enthusiastic brides of Christ burying her face in Saint Rightvinger’s leathery groin. ‘Mother Lucretia! Will you get her to stop muzzling his private parts?’

Mother Lucretia’s face fell. ‘With the greatest respect your grace I think she’s rooting for truffles. Ah, will ye’ look at ‘em – happy as swines at a slop trough. They’ll soon have him beatified your grace.’ She looked approvingly as the elderly Sister Diabolis began sucking at the furry papal earlobes. ‘That’s my good little piglet; one should never forget to wash behind the ears.’

After covering almost the entire cadaver with copious sputum, Mother Lucretia instructed her ‘snivelling piglets’ to turn the body over.

‘You don’t find this form of spiritual ablution a little…ah…vulgar?’ Chipolata queried. (Being relatively new to the post, he’d not been privy the beatification ritual.)

‘Ach no, I find it to be the height of sophistication, so I do. It’s a good crack too.’ Mother Lucretia observed, noticing that one of her charges was rimming the recumbent form adoringly. Following another savage round of whipping, she promptly disrobed.

Pope Chipolata II gazed on in disdain as Mother Lucretia emerged from her vestments like a huge, over-brimming blancmange. She wobbled precariously into the fray, clad in only a PVC basque, matching chaps and nine inch stilettos. As she got on all fours, her enormous pendulous cleavage swung apart, drooped and smacked together again as if offering a polite round of applause. ‘Now come here my good little piglets. Mother sow has a special reward for youse. Come and get your teat treat my little suckling porkers.’

As the congregation jostled to take their turn amongst the rolls of fat, Mother Lucretia snorted contentedly and released a long hissing fart.

Pope Chipolata II gazed down imperiously. ‘Mother Superior, I fear you’re charges seem to be labouring under a misapprehension?’

* * *

It was some hours later that Mother Lucretia shambled back to her private quarters. Sister Craven was perched on the chaise lounge and glanced up timidly. ‘Mother, I’ve been thinking about leaving the order. You see I-’

‘Sister, I don’t have the patience for your puerile whining!’ Her superior snapped. ‘Besides, if it wasn’t for your gluttonous self-adoration you wouldn’t even have these misgivings. May I remind you, Sister, you’ve taken solemn vows. To break them is sacrilegious.’

‘But it’s not just the vows Mother. It’s the teachings…it’s the tainting of young minds…of innocents, with notions of guilt, sin and unworthiness…Is that not a betrayal of the human spirit…a desecration of that inner-Eden we call our ‘soul’?’

The Mother Superior glared at her, eyes ablaze. ‘What the hell are you prattling on about ye’ she-devil? ‘Y’know, I think I’ve had just about enough of your obstreperous attitude!’ The Mother Superior fumed and began fingering her whip. ‘Besides, you should never underestimate human folly sister.’

Sister Craven stared tearfully at the floor. ‘But I have irreconcilable doubts Mother Lucretia. Despite your disciplines, there’s no means to substantiate the existence or non-existence of God. Such things are unfathomable and unknowable. Without certainty, all these rules, these rituals…all this guilt, stricture and moral absolutism disintegrates into vain absurdity. It is but a house of cards; hinged on conjecture and propped up with the complicity of sovereigns, knaves and fools. Beyond this toppling wonderland, I aspire for those finer sentiments of human nature and accept its innate diversity. A multiplicity that defines us, our world and the dreams that garland our heavens.’

Mother Lucretia rounded on her. ‘You’ve been guzzling communion wine, haven’t ye’?’ She screamed as she advanced towards her prey. ‘…no-good drunken trollop of a halfwit troll. How dare you defy me! I’ll make pork cutlets of ye’!’

‘Leave me alone, you monster!’  Sister Craven shrieked.

Whether it was her bloated, overfed body, her unduly agitated state of simply an act of God was indeterminate. Whatever, without warning, Sonia Lucretia O’Brien’s carotid artery imploded sending her sprawling to the floor in agony. Sister Craven could only gaze on in horror as her superior plunged into a dark and irredeemable oblivion.

© Edwin Black 2011